


Get Out of My Head

by itallstartedwithdefenestration



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Shower Sex, and Satan reading U.S. Weekly
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-07
Updated: 2013-02-07
Packaged: 2017-11-28 12:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,580
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/674215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itallstartedwithdefenestration/pseuds/itallstartedwithdefenestration
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Lucifer likes to show up in Sam’s bathroom infrequently and read gossip magazines, and Sam, eventually, gets used to letting him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Get Out of My Head

**Author's Note:**

> A fic inspired by my very dear friend grinningflowers.

The first time Lucifer shows up in Sam’s head, he thinks it’s an accident. 

It happens right after Sam’s memory loss gets reversed and his wall crumbles to virtually nothing but a few dusty bricks rattling around helplessly in his skull. He’s standing at the bathroom sink in a grungy motel room, brushing his teeth and listening to the faint strains of Dean’s rock music coming from the other side of the wall, when Lucifer literally fucking appears _out of nowhere,_ and Sam jumps about ten feet, his hand over his heart, knee crashing into one of the pipes underneath the sink.

“Hey, Sammy, you okay?” Dean calls, and Sam blinks, wincing at the throbbing pain in his leg.

_Be careful, Sammy,_ Lucifer says, pouting. _Don’t hurt my favorite vessel._ He crosses his arms over his chest and looks very much like a petulant child, and Sam squeezes his eyes shut against a sudden rush of dizziness. 

“I’m fine, Dean,” he calls back, and when he opens his eyes again Lucifer is gone, leaving behind nothing but the faint lingering scent of ice. 

He thinks it was just a one-time thing, thinks he’s off the hook, but things have not been that simple in Sam’s life since he was six months old and Azazel showed up in his nursery to drip demon blood on his lip and fuck everything up for him forever. About a week after that first time, Lucifer appears again, this time while Dean and Sam are eating at a diner, and Sam smashes his knee against the underside of the table this time, a sharp, surprised gasp escaping his lips as Lucifer smirks at him from the other side of the booth. 

_Glad to see me, I’m assuming?_

“Sam, what the hell?” Dean says, grabbing his beer before it spills. 

“No, it’s nothing,” Sam mutters, spreading his hands over his legs and trying not to look at Lucifer, who is picking up one of the forks off a neighboring table and trying unsuccessfully to balance it on his nose. “Sorry.”

Dean shoots him a patented ‘you’re fucking insane and that’s not a compliment’ look before shaking his head and glancing back at the newspaper he’s holding. “Well, apparently there were some reports of girls vanishing for weeks over in Cincinnati and then showing up pregnant,” he says. “And by _pregnant_ I mean seven, eight months. Wanna go check it out?”

“Yeah. Sure.” Sam glances at where Lucifer was, but he’s not there now, and he pinches the bridge of his nose before sliding out of the booth and following Dean to the Impala. 

*

It turns out to be an incubus, and the only way they’re able to kill it is by stabbing it directly with the demon blade. It almost breaks Dean’s neck and scrapes up Sam’s arms pretty bad in the process, and after the fight is over he looks up and sees Lucifer standing off to the side, his arms folded across his chest, a tiny frown on his face. 

_All this for a few extra babies, Sam? Hardly constructive to your well-being._

He follows them home, riding in the backseat of the Impala and kicking his feet over the back of Sam’s seat, nodding his head along to the music on the radio. Sam impulsively wants to shove his legs down, like he’s some irritating brother he can’t quite get rid of, but Dean doesn’t know about the visions and Sam isn’t going to tell him. Ever, preferably. 

Lucifer sings along with “War Pigs” by Black Sabbath, and he’s surprisingly on-key, but Sam just stares out the window at the passing trees, the blood thrumming through his head.

When they get back to the motel, Dean immediately collapses on his bed and falls asleep almost before his head hits the pillow, so Sam kicks off his shoes and turns off the side lamp and goes to take a shower. Lucifer is sitting on the toilet seat, his legs crossed, a copy of _U.S. Weekly_ in his hands. 

_Sam, listen,_ he says, eyes skimming the pages. _Sam, Oprah’s paying five thousand dollars for facial reconstruction._

Sam turns the shower on, ignoring Lucifer completely as he strips off his shirt, sticky with sweat and blood, and slides down his pants. Lucifer’s eyes trail over his body and he doesn’t even try to hide the approval that flashes through them, quick and fast, like lightning. _Very nice,_ he comments, and Sam hesitates for a fraction of a second before tugging off his underwear and stepping into the shower. 

_Kate and William are having sextuplets,_ Lucifer calls, the pages of the magazine rustling. _They’re calling it “The Royal Shazam”._

Sam squeezes his eyes shut, and counts to ten before opening the shower curtain very slowly. The devil is gone, and so is the magazine, and Sam lets out a relaxed sigh before soaping up a rag and sliding it over his chest, the flat plane of his stomach. The water hits his cuts and he hisses softly, twisting his body so that it’s not directly under the stream.

_I could fix that for you,_ and Lucifer is right behind him, and Sam jumps, and almost slips on the wet tile, only saving himself by gripping the towel rack and curling his toes inward. 

“Fuck,” he says harshly, his hand over his heart, his breathing coming fast and uneven. 

Lucifer’s eyes trail over him again, and his tongue slides slow and dangerous over his lips. _Good idea._

The taller of the two reaches over and turns off the water, stepping out and wrapping a towel around his waist. The bathroom is full of steam, but Lucifer is still one hundred percent visible behind him, his hands shoved into his pockets. _Seriously, Sam, let me fix your cuts; it’s the least I can do._

“Leave me alone,” Sam grunts, without looking at him, before turning and walking out of the bathroom. 

_True love!_ Lucifer says, delightedly, as Sam grabs his clothes out of his bag and slips them on haphazardly under his towel, before crawling into his own bed and pressing his face hard against the pillow.

In the morning, Lucifer is gone. 

*

And so it goes. Usually Lucifer likes to show up when Sam is doing the most random things—once, when he was filling up the Impala, Lucifer appeared eating a Milky Way bar and talking about how he wished people would have been _slightly_ less fickle about loving Whitney Houston so much before she died—although occasionally he still comes to hunts and calls out random, slightly unhelpful things from various corners of the room (the most memorable of which include: _the demon’s name is Darla, Sam; call her that and see if she still blushes at it,_ or _you know, I wanna own Led Zeppelin’s greatest hits CD,_ or even _Sam, you should cut your hair, it’s growing uneven in the back_ ). He likes to touch Sam, mostly on the shoulder or the sides, and it’s weird: in the beginning Sam would jerk and flinch away like a horse trying to get rid of flies, but now he mostly just ignores it, the way he ignores pretty much everything Lucifer says or does. 

(The touching isn’t even _bad;_ it’s actually sort of warm in a pleasant, sleepy kind of way.)

And then one afternoon they fight a vampire, a whole gang of them, and even though Sam and Dean are used to these sons of bitches, they aren’t used to there being twelve at once. Dean almost gets bitten three times, and Sam gets a black eye and what he’s pretty sure is a bruised rib before he can chop off even one head. They kill all but one, a young girl who gets away in the midst of her older brothers fighting and almost chewing Dean’s legs off, and they’re too tired to chase after her so they just head back to the motel and decide not to mention it ever again. Dean splashes his face with cold water, wiping the blood off his face with the sleeve of his jacket, and lies down on his bed.

“I’m going to sleep for a week,” he grunts, curling into himself, one arm shoved against his chest, the other tucked beneath his head. Sam sighs, glancing at the bathroom, then at his own bed. It’s tempting to just go right to sleep, but he knows if he does he’s never going to actually move in the morning. He can feel his muscles stiffening already, especially in his neck and upper back, and so he strips off his clothes and steps into the shower. The water is hot, rolling over his aching skin, and he just stands there, head bowed, watching the blood from his cuts taint the floor a faint pink. 

Lucifer shows up about a minute later, and this time Sam is too exhausted to jump, or fake like he’s not glancing at the devil out of the corner of his eyes, or anything else. 

_What the hell, Sam?_ Lucifer asks, his eyes roving over Sam’s cuts and bruises and the dark red place on his chest where he knows the injured rib is. _What happened?_

Lately Sam’s taken to answering him, in short, to-the-point sentences, because he finds it’s easier to endure him if he’s not poking his shoulder all the time and repeating the same question over and over like an attention-seeking child, so he mutters, “Vampire clan,” and half leans against the wall, his eyes fluttering in a state between open and shut. His whole body feels like one giant strained muscle. 

Lucifer bites his lower lip, and Sam is startled by the humanness of the gesture before he’s leaning in, pressing his fingers against Sam’s cheek, running his thumb over the swollen eye. “What,” he starts, hoarsely, but then Lucifer removes his hand, and to his surprise some of the pain has receded. He gets the feeling that if he looked in the mirror, his eye would have _maybe_ a little yellow marking around it. Nothing else. 

Then Lucifer is moving behind him, fisting his hands in a washrag, and grabbing the soap off its rack and lathering the rag with it. _Let me,_ he says, reaching for Sam’s back. 

Sam is exhausted, but he’s not stupid, and he steps away, turning so that he’s facing Lucifer instead of talking to the wall opposite. “What are you doing?” he asks, voice a little stronger now that he’s sure some of his injuries are gone, and Lucifer sighs, rolling his eyes and staring down at the soaped-up cloth.

_Do you want me to get rid of all the sprains or not?_

An eyebrow raise, because why the fuck would Lucifer want to do anything nice for him at all, is this just some plot to get Sam on his side again, some way that he’s going to eventually use to spring himself out of the Cage again—

Lucifer’s thoughts, when they come, are indignant and almost angry. _I healed your eye,_ he says. _I could heal the rest of you. Make you whole. The pulled muscles will go away in a few days, but that rib? I wouldn’t count on being able to breathe right for another three months, Sammy._

“Um,” says Sam, because seriously, do they have some sort of mental connection now? 

_Come on,_ Lucifer murmurs, gentling his tone. _Just allow me to help you. Just this once._

And god, Sam is so _tired,_ so very tired of having to do everything for himself, so tired of staying up nights and working cases and dealing with Dean’s bitch fits and emotional walls and watching his life crumble before his eyes and being absolutely powerless to stop it. He’s tired, and his body aches like he just worked out for twelve hours straight, and it’s late and the water is hot against his skin and _why the fuck not,_ so he just turns and faces the wall again and says:

“Go ahead.”

Lucifer rolls the washcloth down the corded, heavy muscle of Sam’s back, swiping soap onto his skin and allowing the water to run it off in fast rivulets. He passes it over Sam’s bruises, his cuts, and each time he does this Sam feels a tiny part of him heal itself, like a zippered case shutting. 

Eventually Lucifer’s hands replace the washcloth, warm from the water and slick with soap and surprisingly soft. He digs his fingers into Sam’s shoulders, massaging the skin there, and Sam lets out a soft, surprised grunt, instinctively leaning back into his touch. Lucifer’s hands move lower, over Sam’s sides and then around his waist, and a second later Sam is being turned around, and Lucifer is pressing his palm flat against the reddened mark where his rib is pulsating softly, creating steady ripples of pain every time he inhales. He digs his fingers in there, too, and instantly the pain recedes into nothing; the skin turns its normal pale shade. Sam watches Lucifer’s fingers trail downwards from his rib to his navel, and then lower still, until he’s resting his hand in the sensitive area between Sam’s hips. He looks up, meeting Sam’s eyes; he seems to be asking permission for something. 

Instead of nodding, Sam brings his head down and crashes their lips together, feeling the water rushing over them and around them, a roar, like standing under a waterfall. Lucifer’s hand slides down the rest of the way and he cups Sam in his palm, stroking him with his slick, wet fingers, and Sam presses him back against the wall, and the water arcs over his spine, his ass, his legs. Lucifer strokes him, and Sam kisses him in return, gripping his shoulders, sliding their tongues together. He can feel heat and ice in Lucifer’s mouth, can taste something metallic and cold on his skin; he hears a crackling in his ears like oncoming fire and when he opens his eyes Lucifer is gone, and he’s left standing alone in the shower, his injuries healed and a taste in his mouth like someone gave him spearmint gum in the middle of a forest fire. 

His come is dripping down the inside of his leg, when he looks, and the water around him is lukewarm, which means he’s been in here for a long time. It’s another few seconds before he feels his heart, the way it’s slamming against his chest, and he swallows, turning off the shower and stepping out, drying off and slipping into his underwear and a nightshirt. 

He sleeps hard that night, and when he wakes up Lucifer is standing beside the window, arms crossed in front of him. 

_Enjoyed ourselves last night, didn’t we?_ he asks, all innocence and pouty lips, and Sam shrugs, but he can’t quite keep the tiniest of smiles off his face as he stands up and pulls on his jeans and a t-shirt. 

_Shall we do it again sometime?_ Lucifer says, something almost like hesitation in his voice, and Sam glances at him and hesitates too before inclining his head once, in a half-nod. A broad, completely unrestrained smile blossoms over Lucifer’s face, and he vanishes, leaving behind nothing but the trail of his scent.

A minute later, Dean’s waking up, and he and Sam are heading out again, back to the road, back to the neverending life of the hunter.


End file.
